


Summer Conditioning

by secondshame



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondshame/pseuds/secondshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone thinks Cristiano Ronaldo's summer stay will have a bad influence on Kaká. They aren't entirely wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Conditioning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at footballkink2. Also [here](http://secondshame.livejournal.com/983.html) on Livejournal.

It’s the start of summer when Cristiano comes to stay. They’d met a few times before, him and Kaká, at the kind of family gatherings where Kaká pretty much doesn’t know anyone and isn’t even certain he’s actually related to them. He’s not related to Cristiano, actually, not really; Cristiano is the son from the first marriage of Kaká’s mother’s sister’s husband, or something. 

Kaká can’t quite remember, but it doesn’t matter. Even if they were as close as brothers, blood-wise, the fact would remain that Kaká hasn’t seen Cristiano for at least eight years, is practically a stranger, and is spending the next few months living with Kaká’s while his parents take an extended trip to who knows where. 

Kaká considers himself lucky that they have a large enough house that he does not have to share a room with Cristiano, and judging by the conversations Kaká has heard between his parents when they thought he and his brother had gone to bed, they were glad of it as well. His parents may not have seen Cristiano since he and Kaká were kids either, but they seem to know far more about him than Kaká does and from what they say, his and Cristiano’s lives have taken very different trajectories. Kaká perks up with interest when his parents mention football, and deflate again when the context is that Cristiano had been suspended from his school team for fighting. 

Still, at least that will be something they have in common, Kaká thinks. The football, not the fighting. He is determined not to judge Cristiano before he sees him again, not by the worries of his parents or by his vague memories of a dark-haired kid half-hiding behind his mother at some family picnic. Anyway, knowing his parents, Kaká thinks they probably plan to spend the summer turning Cristiano into a model citizen, an upstanding member of the community, which would probably be good for him, really. 

When a taxi pulls up outside of the house, Kaká is out the door to greet Cristiano as he gets out dragging a bag from the backseat and going to the boot of the car to remove two more suitcases. As the taxi drives away, Cristiano turns and by this time Kaká has gone all the way across the lawn so he and Cristiano are face to face. 

Cristiano is tall, as tall as Kaká although if Kaká remembers correctly Cristiano is a few years younger. And handsome, Kaká thinks, as Cristiano pushes his aviator-style sunglasses up off his face and smiles crookedly at him. 

“Ricardo, right?” Cristiano says, and Kaká nods. “I remember you. Kinda. Do you—is it Ricardo? Rick?” 

“Kaká,” Kaká says. Cristiano raises one well (perhaps overly) groomed eyebrow. 

“Kaká,” he repeats, pronouncing it so that it sounds like shit. It’s far from the first time someone’s said this to Kaká, and he’s patient, so he just repeats his name again the right way, and Cristiano says it again, correctly. 

Kaká realises there’s no reason for them to be standing in the front yard with all of Cristiano’s luggage around them so he picks up one of Cristiano’s suitcases, turns, and motions for Cristiano to follow him back into the house. “Everybody’s out right now,” he explains to Cristiano, leading him upstairs. “My parents are working and Digão goes to summer camp. This is your room,” he adds as he pushes open a door at the end of the hallway. 

“Cool,” Cristiano says. He hauls his suitcases in to the room and then looks expectantly back at Kaká, who pushes the last bag through the door. Cristiano turns away but he does not shut the door so Kaká takes it as permission to enter the room behind him, feeling curious about what Cristiano has in his luggage. Kaká knows guys that his parents talk about in the same nervous tone as they’d discussed Cristiano. He doesn’t hang around with them, but he knows them, knows that they often have drugs, pornography, maybe even other things. There’s a part of Kaká that feels curious about these things, these guys. 

When he was fourteen his friend had shown him a dirty picture in a magazine and Kaká had torn it out carefully and put it into his pocket, where his mother had come across it later. Kaká thought that she was going to have a heart attack. Instead she told his father, who sat him down and told him that he shouldn’t have things like that. It wasn’t as though Kaká had never seen pornography since then, but he didn’t seek it out. He told his father soon after the incident that he was not going to have sex until he was married and his father told him that he shouldn’t go around talking about it, but that it was the right thing to do. 

Kaká wonders for a moment if Cristiano has ever had sex. He immediately regrets it when he focuses back in on what Cristiano is doing, which is bending over to undo the zipper of one of his suitcases. The motion gives Kaká a view of Cristiano’s behind and the backs of his legs, and his pants are tight enough that Kaká can almost see the outlines of the muscles of his thighs. 

Kaká’s mouth feels dry. He coughs. Cristiano straightens back up, drags the now-open suitcase up on to his bed, and begins pulling piles of neatly folded clothing out to set on the bedspread. There is no sign of pornography or drugs or anything else out of the ordinary.

“I am going to—“ Kaká begins. Cristiano says nothing, does not look up. Kaká leaves the room, shuts the door, leans against it, takes a deep breath and then swallows over and over until the saliva has returned to his mouth. His own room is next to Cristiano’s and he opens the door and goes in. 

+

When Cristiano enters the room some time later, Kaká has fallen asleep on the bed, so Cristiano leaves again. Kaká’s brother arrives home some time later, followed by his mother and his father. By this time Kaká is awake, rushing down the stairs to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, Cristiano still on the landing above him. Kaká’s mother looks up at Cristiano, then back at Kaká. 

“Why don’t you boys go outside for a bit until supper,” she suggests and behind her Kaká’s father opens the front door. Kaká steps out on to the front step and waits until he hears Cristiano coming down the stairs before he walks out on to the lawn. Cristiano shuts the door between them and Kaká’s parents, and leans against it as Kaká turns back around to face him. 

“What do you want to do?” Kaká asks. Cristiano does not answer. The air is still hot although it is evening, the sun red and low in the sky. A drop of sweat wells up at Kaká’s throat and he wipes it away with his fingertips, rubs them on the hem of his shirt. Still, Cristiano says nothing, so Kaká suggests, “My friends play football near here.” Cristiano nods, so Kaká grabs a ball that is lying in the yard and takes off, Cristiano at his heels.

On their way to the field, Kaká sees a friend of his mother’s walking with her groceries. He calls out a hello to her and she takes two quick looks at Cristiano before she greets Kaká in return. 

“Olá, Senhora Lopes,” Kaká says. She glances at Cristiano again so he adds, “This is my friend Cristiano Ronaldo.” 

“Olá, Ricardo,” Senhora Lopes says. “It is… nice to meet you, Cristiano.” Cristiano gives her quick air kisses on either side of her cheeks and Senhora Lopes takes a step backwards. “Tell your mother I will give her a call tomorrow afternoon, yes?” Kaká nods and Senhora Lopes walks down the sidewalk in the direction of her own house. 

The five-a-side game is in full swing when Kaká and Cristiano arrive, but Kaká’s friends quickly sub him in to one side and Cristiano in to the other. Almost immediately, Cristiano intercepts a pass from one of Kaká’s teammates, dribbles a defender, and puts the ball neatly into the corner of the net. His new teammates clap him on the back and pat him on the ass, and Kaká admires his ability. 

As the match wears on, Kaká thinks privately that he and Cristiano are by far the best players on the field. He knows that Cristiano plays with a somewhat well-known team in his own city and that there have been murmurs of interest from more professional clubs; Kaká’s own footballing career is following a similar path. Just before the sun drops over the horizon, Kaká’s indication that they should return home for dinner, Kaká tackles the ball away from another player and races toward the goal. He can almost feel Cristiano behind him, and he speeds up all of a sudden, tucking the ball behind the goalie and nearly slamming into the net himself. 

He grips the goal post to keep his balance, and the shadows are long in front of him. Cristiano’s shadow stretches over Kaká’s body and beyond him as he comes to a stop a metre away. Kaká twists around; the fingers of one hand are still wrapped around the post and he reaches out for Cristiano’s shoulder with the other. Cristiano’s eyes are dark. 

“Good game,” Kaká says. Cristiano shrugs Kaká’s hand away. Kaká feels impatient and pushes the feeling away, goes to say goodbye to his friends and then motions that Cristiano should leave with him. They fall into step on the street. 

Cristiano speaks when they are a few blocks from Kaká’s house. “You are good,” he says. There is no sign of his prior annoyance in his voice. 

“You too,” Kaká replies. “You’re really good.” He glances at Cristiano, who grins and drops his arm around Kaká’s shoulders. Kaká leans against him on instinct, nuzzling his cheek into Cristiano’s collarbone. Cristiano smells like sweat and a cologne scent that Kaká doesn’t recognise. 

“We were better than everyone else out there,” Cristiano says. Kaká wants to protest, to tell Cristiano that he should be more modest, more humble. That some of his friends are quite good at football. That everyone in Kaká’s neighbourhood thinks that Cristiano is going to corrupt him. That Cristiano is pretty much welcome to do exactly that. 

Kaká’s last thought surprises him so much that he jerks his head up from Cristiano’s shoulder. The top of his head collides with Cristiano’s jaw and Cristiano yelps. Kaká pulls away, rubbing his scalp with his hand, and when he looks back Cristiano is doing the same to his chin. 

“Sorry,” Kaká says, embarrassed. Cristiano shrugs and touches Kaká’s head where he had knocked it. Kaká wants to do the same for Cristiano’s jaw, but instead he clenches his hands into fists at his sides and continues the walk back to his house. 

+

The first couple weeks of Cristiano’s visit are largely routine. Kaká and Cristiano both need to stay in shape for football so they get up early, just after the sun has risen but before the heat of the day becomes unbearable, and run a few miles to the outskirts of the city. Kaká sprints with a ball under his arm and when they reach a park on the edge of town he drops the ball and passes it across the green to Cristiano, who chips it up into the air and catches it between his shoulder and his neck. He rolls his shoulders and the ball travels across his back before he lets it fall to his feet and kicks it back to Kaká.

They run drills for an hour or so, until beads of sweat are sliding down Kaká’s neck, darkening his grey t-shirt. On the other end of the park, Cristiano traps the ball at his feet and wipes a hand across his brow. Then he rubs his hand through his hair until it sticks up in all directions, which Kaká thinks is maybe what Cristiano is actually aiming for, and jogs back over. 

“Tired, Ricky?” Cristiano asks, smirking. Kaká opens his mouth to answer but then Cristiano pulls up the hem of his shirt and uses it to wipe the sweat off his face, and so Kaká focuses on Cristiano’s stomach instead. “Kaká?” Cristiano says. His shirt falls back into place and he snaps his fingers in front of Kaká’s eyes. 

Kaká shrugs. He stretches one leg forward and pulls back the ball at Cristiano’s feet. He knocks it behind him with his heel, then pivots and takes off. He makes it half a block before Cristiano comes flying in with a tackle that would be more suited to rugby than football, and Kaká hits the ground hard with Cristiano on top of him. All the air whooshes out of his lungs.

“Foul,” Kaká gasps, when he can draw in a breath again. “Red card.” Cristiano is laughing above him and Kaká squirms trying to shake him loose. He manages to turn over on to his back but Cristiano is strong and he locks his legs so his knees are clenched against Kaká’s waist, pins Kaká’s arms to his sides with his hands. “Lifetime ban,” Kaká says, and he’s still gasping but now he’s laughing too. 

Kaká manages to wrench one arm free of Cristiano’s grasp, and he reaches for Cristiano’s shoulder to shove him to the side. Instead, his hand lands, almost by accident, on Cristiano’s neck. Cristiano looks down at Kaká’s hand as best he can without dislodging it. Kaká can feel the short hairs on the back of Cristiano’s neck and he curls his fingers to scratch lightly against Cristiano’s skin, which is warm from running. 

Before Kaká can decide on his next move, Cristiano pushes up and off him, standing up and then reaching back down to grab Kaká by the same hand that was just on Cristiano’s neck. He hauls Kaká to his feet, then flicks the football up, catches it, and presses it into Kaká’s chest until Kaká wraps his arms around it. 

“I’m hungry,” Cristiano says. “Come on.” 

They’d had breakfast, but it was only some toast and fruit, so they head back into the city and stop at a café with tables lined up along the sidewalk. Cristiano offers to get them some food; Kaká sits down at one of the tables as Cris goes in to the café to order. 

“Hey,” someone says a minute later from behind Kaká as he watches Cristiano inside at the counter. “Ricardo, olá!” He turns and sees a girl approaching him, recognises her from school. “How is your summer?”

“Olá,” he says. “It is very good. And yours?” 

“Great!” she says. “I got a job at a hotel downtown; I’m learning hospitality.” 

“Congratulations,” Kaká says. He smiles warmly at her, then glances inside the café. Cristiano is leaning against the counter, and when he and Kaká lock eyes he shrugs and gestures to the door leading to the kitchen, indicating that he is still waiting for their food. 

“That’s Cristiano Ronaldo, isn’t it?” Kaká’s schoolmate asks. He turns back to her and nods, and she purses her lips in disapproval. “It’s just,” she says, in response to Kaká’s raised eyebrows, “My cousin’s boyfriend goes to school with him and she says he’s just… well, you’re so nice, Ricardo.” 

“Oh,” Kaká says. The door to the café swings open, knocked open by Cristiano with his foot. In his hands he carries two cups of coffee and two plates of food perched precariously on the cups. One of the plates nearly slides off the cup on which it is balanced as Cristiano sets everything on the table, and he and Kaká reach for it at the same time, fingers entangling briefly before Kaká gets a grip on it. 

“Thanks,” Cristiano mutters. Then he notices the girl Kaká has been talking to and he grins. “Olá,” he says. 

“This is—“ Kaká begins.

“I have to go, actually,” she interrupts. “Have a good summer, Ricardo!” She walks off down the street before either Cristiano or Kaká can say anything else. After she has turned the corner, Cristiano sits down and looks at Kaká. He whistles low, smirking, and then laughs. 

“What’d you say to scare her off, Ricky?” Cristiano asks, still laughing. 

“Nothing,” Kaká says, and when Cristiano continues laughing, he repeats it. “Nothing. She had to go work. She just got a job.” 

“Is she your girlfriend, Ricky?” Cristiano has stopped laughing, but there is still amusement written all over his face. “Do you want her to be?” 

“No,” Kaká says. He finds that he can’t answer Cristiano’s teasing with the same amount of humour and Cristiano must realise it, because he pushes one of the plates and a cup of coffee across the table. They eat, and neither of them mention Kaká’s friend any further. 

+

Kaká wakes up one morning as the sun begins to seep through the thin curtains on his window. He does not open his eyes immediately, but first stretches, arching his back until it cracks and sighing happily as he relaxes. Then a noise outside jerks him into full alertness, a thudding sound near his window. He gets out of bed and goes over to the window, pulling the curtain out of the way to look out. 

Cristiano is in the yard with a football. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Kaká watches him pick out a nearby tree and kick the ball at it. It bounces off the trunk of the tree and Cristiano traps it with his chest as it falls back to earth. He looks at another spot, this time one of the fence posts, and kicks the ball in that direction. He misses the post by inches, and jogs across the yard to retrieve the ball, then sets it back in the same place and shoots again. Kaká is mesmerized as Cristiano kicks the ball over and over until he hits that particular fence post one, two, three times in a row. 

Kaká decides it is time to start the morning and he lets go of the curtain to get a t-shirt and shorts out of one of his drawers. After he pulls them on he kneels down and offers God a quick prayer of thanks for his family and his friends and football and the sun and Cristiano Ronaldo. He half-considers asking God to let the day be warm enough that Cristiano elects not to wear a shirt for its entirety but decides that even if He would surely appreciate the hard, firm lines of Cristiano’s torso as much as he, Kaká, would, God probably has the ability to admire them as often as He wants, and more important things to do than grant Kaká the same luxury. 

In the backyard, Kaká waits for Cristiano to notice that he has come outside. Cristiano does, after a while, turning around after a free kick that nicks the bottom of a bird feeder hanging from one of the trees and seeing Kaká leaning against the side of the house. Cristiano’s shirt is draped over a bush near the door and when Cristiano comes over to where Kaká is he picks it up but does not put it on, twisting the fabric in his hands. 

“Am I not good enough to train with you anymore?” Kaká asks. He’s joking, but Cristiano seems to take it seriously. 

“You are,” Cristiano says. Like he’s trying to prove it, he taps the ball in Kaká’s direction with the inside of his foot. Now he does put on his shirt, the neck of it flattening down his hair in the front.

“Let’s go for a run,” Kaká says, passing the ball back to Cristiano, who bends down to pick it up. “Leave it,” Kaká tells him and Cristiano pauses, his hand on top of the ball. “We’ll come back for it later,” he adds, and Cristiano straightens up. He starts to run, jogging around to the front of the yard and then heading off down the street, but Kaká catches up to him with a burst of speed and leads him in a different direction than they normally go, away from the park where they practise football every morning. 

Kaká is used to leading people around, in class and at the occasional Bible study he attends and as captain of his football team, but taking Cristiano across the city is different. Cristiano falls in to step beside him like he knows where they’re going as well as Kaká does, despite the fact that he has not asked Kaká where they’re going or even in what direction. He turns when Kaká turns, reflexively, and keeps pace even when Kaká takes a sudden detour down an alleyway. 

They enter the less affluent part of town, and Kaká glances at Cristiano to see how he reacts to the wooden boards nailed across a door, the dried up garden in a window box. Kaká knows the city like he knows the feel of his boot laces against the stitching of a football but he’s had friends come to visit, teammates from the suburbs, who get suddenly quiet, uncomfortable, as soon as they’re out of the wealthier sections of the city. Cristiano, by contrast, seems to relax, looking around the area with interest and even raising a hand to wave hello to a woman sweeping her house’s front steps in the warm, yellow light of early morning. 

On the other side of the neighbourhood, when the streets widen and the houses spread further apart, small lawns in between, Kaká turns once more at the top of a hill. Cristiano does not react immediately so Kaká grabs him by the wrist and tugs him in the right direction. He can feel Cristiano’s pulse beat fast and rhythmic under his thumb. 

Cristiano turns his hand over and for a moment their palms are pressed together before Cristiano slips his hand out of Kaká’s grasp and falls in to step with him once more. At the foot of the hill is a patch of grass and a small, round lake, grass and water separated by the thinnest stretch of sandy ground. 

“Beach,” Cristiano says. Kaká nods. Cristiano looks from Kaká to the shore and back again. “Very impressive, Ricky,” he says, laugh lines that crinkle up around the corners of his mouth and eyes. 

“Sorry that it’s not the island paradise you’re used to,” Kaká says, which makes Cristiano smile harder.

“Sarcasm,” Cristiano says. He’s already walking down to the water, and his words are muffled for a moment as he pulls his shirt off and lets it fall to the ground. “Is there no rule against sarcasm in the Bible?” 

Kaká rolls his eyes, removing his own shirt and then his shoes and placing them in a pile on the sand. “There are other beaches,” he says, “that are bigger. But there are so many people.” 

“Since when do you not like people?” Cristiano asks. He kicks off his shoes and takes a step into the water, closing his eyes for a moment as the tiny waves of the lake wash over his feet. Kaká watches Cristiano dig his toes into the sand, lean down to scoop up some water with cupped hands and splash it on his legs. 

“I do,” Kaká says. He walks in to the water as well, and puts a hand on Cristiano’s shoulder to steady himself when one of his feet sinks into a loose area in the sand. “But you don’t seem to.”

“I like people fine,” Cristiano says. He laughs again, but this time his laugh does not reach his eyes all the way as it had before. “They don’t like me.” 

Kaká opens his mouth to protest. Cristiano waves a hand, dismissive, but Kaká speaks anyway. “I didn’t know you cared about that.” He’s worried for Cristiano, about Cristiano, who acts like nothing bothers him but whose siblings are grown and moved away, whose parents left him for the summer with relatives he barely knows.

“I don’t,” Cristiano says sincerely, thoughtlessly, but with an edge in his voice. “People say a lot of things. I don’t care what they say about me.” Kaká has a pretty good idea of some of the things people have said about Cristiano, can only guess at the rest. 

Cristiano must be tired of the conversation because he dives shallowly, kicking his feet out to propel him further into the lake. He comes up for air and splashes water in Kaká’s direction. “Come on,” he says, diving under again, beginning an easy freestyle of smooth strokes cutting through the waves. Kaká follows. 

They swim out toward the centre of the lake. It isn’t deep, but they reach a point where their feet only skim the bottom and they tread their arms to stay above water. Kaká ducks under the water for a moment. His hair is too long, not cut for the summer like it is most years, and when he comes up shaking his head, flinging droplets of lake water everywhere, his bangs fall thick and sodden across his face and into his eyes. 

Cristiano brushes his fingertips against Kaká’s face, tucking his hair behind his ear. Then he puts his own head in the water, and when he surfaces for breath, Kaká kisses him. 

Cristiano pulls away from Kaká immediately. “No,” he says. His fingers have found Kaká’s skin again, framing his face, along his jaw. 

“Okay,” Kaká says. He uses his own hands to push Cristiano’s fingers gently away from his face. 

+

That night at dinner, after several more hours swimming at the lake, after a football game with Kaká’s friends, after running errands for Kaká’s mother, all without talking about what had happened, Kaká looks across the table and meets Cristiano’s eyes. Cristiano has just put a bite of feijoada into his mouth, fork still resting against the corner of his lips. Kaká watches him and Cristiano stares back, unblinking, pressing the fork in until Kaká can see the tiny dents of the tines on Cristiano’s lower lip. Kaká looks away. 

After supper, Kaká tells his mother that he has a headache and she excuses him from the table to go to bed. Cristiano follows him upstairs. “Don’t get weird about this,” he says bluntly, leaning against the doorframe in the entrance of Kaká’s room.

“I do have a headache,” Kaká says, sitting down on his bed. It’s mostly true. Cristiano disappears down the hall and returns with a glass of water that he sets down on the desk by the door, and a bottle of aspirin that he chucks in Kaká’s direction. 

“Fine,” he says, and goes in to his own room. Kaká gets up and shuts his door, then takes two of the aspirin and downs the water. Through the wall, he can hear Cristiano moving around in his bedroom. It’s relaxing, in a way, to listen to him, so Kaká leans against the wall for a few minutes, holding the water glass and letting the sound of Cristiano in the other room bleed through the wall between them. 

In the morning, one of Kaká’s friends from his team calls. It’s one of the boys who lives outside of the city, and he wants Kaká to come out and play a game with them that afternoon. 

“We’re short two out here,” Kaká’s teammate tells him. “It’s just a neighbourhood thing but obviously we want to win it. I’m going to call Luís next.” 

“Luís is out of town,” Kaká says, “He’s in Spain with his girlfriend. But I have a friend who can play with us.” 

“Cristiano Ronaldo, right? I don’t know, Kaká…”

“He’s excellent,” Kaká assures him. 

“I know. That’s not what I’m… fine, we’re playing at two. Can you make it in time?” He gives Kaká directions on getting to the neighbourhood where they play and Kaká hangs up. He goes to find Cristiano, who is outside practicing free kicks as usual. 

“We’re going to play football,” Kaká tells him. 

Cristiano stops his run up to his next free kick and instead bounces the ball up lightly on his foot, then his knee, juggling it as he says, “Ricky, we play football every day.” 

“We have to go farther away today,” Kaká explains. “We’re helping some of my teammates win their summer league.” They go back inside and grab their stuff and then go down the street to the bus stop. 

Two local buses pass before the one that will take them out of the city and in to the suburbs comes by. It is mostly empty—people commute in to the city for the day to work, rather than out of it—but Kaká takes a seat next to Cristiano anyway. The ride is bumpy, the bus seeming to hit every pothole in the road. Cristiano’s knee brushes against Kaká’s, maybe accidentally, maybe on purpose. They don’t talk, but it’s a comfortable silence rather than an awkward one. 

They arrive in the neighbourhood of Kaká’s teammates after almost an hour of travel, and Kaká is glad to get off the bus and stretch his legs. He has the directions to the field written down on his hand, smudged with sweat, and he squints to read them. Cristiano stands beside him, looking around with an expression of increasing frustration. 

Finally Cristiano grabs Kaká’s hand and pulls it away from his face. “Over there,” he says, gesturing with his free hand to where the corner of a football net can be seen through a grove of trees in the distance. Cristano does not let go of Kaká’s hand immediately so Kaká allows himself to be pulled in the direction of the field. 

\+ 

When they reach the field Kaká’s teammates introduce him to the rest of the team and Kaká introduces them all to Cristiano. He notices a few looks of recognition among them and he wonders if they have played against Cristiano before or if they’ve just heard about him. 

“Alright,” the captain says. “We don’t have any subs so don’t get sent off.” That’s as much of a pep talk as he feels inclined to give, apparently, because he sends them out on to the field. Kaká takes his place in the midfield; Cristiano on the wing. The game is important enough that they’ve found someone to referee it, and when he blows his whistle the other team kicks off. 

It’s rare that Cristiano and Kaká play on the same team; Kaká’s friends had discovered pretty quickly that if they were allowed to link up the ball would quickly find its way to the back of the net. That’s exactly what happens today, Kaká laying off the ball to Cristiano, who sends it flying into the top right corner, out of reach of the keeper’s outstretched fingers. 

The score is two to one at halftime, and the sun is high and hot above them. Kaká takes a long swallow of water and then pours some of the bottle on his face. He scrubs his hands through his hair and wipes the water out of his eyes. A glance to the side informs him that Cristiano is looking at him, so he shakes his head, water droplets flying, and pushes his hands through his hair again. As Kaká turns to jog back on to the field, he can sense Cristiano come up behind him. Cristiano slides a hand up Kaká’s neck and into his hair, then pats him on the ass and takes his place on the field. 

The second half has only just begun when someone flicks the ball up and over Kaká’s head into open space. Kaká chases it down and twists around one of the opposing team’s midfielders, heading straight for goal. He’s about to shoot when he feels a foot hook around his ankle, toppling him forward. His knees hit the ground first, an instant before the rest of his body slams into the grass with a jolt. 

Kaká tries to push himself back up with his hands, and winces a little when he puts his weight on the foot that had been caught by the defender’s. The referee’s whistle has already blown for a foul, but Kaká turns to face the player who had fouled him, to ask why he was playing so recklessly. He knows the answer, of course—stopping what Kaká hopes would have been a goal—and he knows that the player could have gotten a lot worse than just a foul against him. 

Before Kaká can say anything, however, Cristiano is in the player’s face, yelling and gesturing. Kaká reaches out to put an arm around Cristiano’s waist and pull him away, but Cristiano shoves him off. 

Then the referee reaches them and he’s the one who separates Cristiano and the defender. He drops the ball in place for a free kick, which Cristiano takes and sends the ball soaring in to the net to make it 3-1. Kaká thinks that this is the end of it, but it’s only minutes later that the same defender gets the ball and Cristiano goes flying into him, only barely clipping the ball with his toes before knocking the defender to the ground with the force of the tackle. 

The ref blows his whistle furiously and Cristiano raises his hands in apology, although, Kaká notices, he cannot quite hide the grin from his face. “Sorry,” Cristiano calls across the field to the referee, as the other team sets up to take the free kick the ref has awarded in their favour, “Slipped.”

+

The opposing player almost converts the free kick; only some quick thinking from their goalkeeper prevents the opposition from scoring to bring the score up to 3-2. Unfortunately, the other team is back in possession just moments later, snatching the ball away from one of the midfielders, and this time the ball ricochets off the side post and into the net. In the seventy-fifth minute, the same scorer dribbles past a defender and the ball slips through the goalkeeper’s hands to equalize. 

“Merda,” he hears Cristiano say as they jog back into their positions for another kickoff. Kaká feels frustrated too. It seems like some of the players had backed off once their team went ahead, and Kaká wants them to put their feet back on the gas now that they have to score once more to win the game and the league. He can tell that Cristiano is angry, that he wants the rest of the team to be angry too. When the game starts up again, Kaká goes on the attack, pushing forward, trying to draw defenders toward him to create space for Cristiano or one of the other forwards. 

He doesn’t manage for nine more minutes, until he intercepts a cross and spots an opening. He looks in Cristiano’s direction and knows that Cris sees it too, so Kaká sends the ball down the field and it drops at Cristiano’s feet. Kaká runs forward as Cristiano settles the ball and the opposing team’s players run back as well. From the other direction, a defender charges at Cristiano. For a moment, Kaká thinks that Cristiano is going to try to swerve around the defender, but instead he uses the outside of his foot to pass the ball ahead of Kaká. 

Kaká runs on to the ball, aware of the player beside him, dashing for it as well. Knowing he won’t have time for a second touch, Kaká looks to the top right corner of the goal and shoots. The goalkeeper leaps for it but the ball goes flying into the net, just centimetres below the crossbar. 

Kaká doesn’t stop moving; just shifts the angle of his run so that he’s headed at Cristiano. When he reaches him, Kaká jumps. Cristiano catches him lets Kaká throw his arms around his neck. Cristiano holds him for a moment, hands wrapped under Kaká’s thighs, before setting Kaká back on the ground just in time for their teammates to reach them. They tackle Kaká from behind, and Kaká has the instinct to put his hand on the back of Cristiano’s head to cushion him when the team comes crashing into them, knocking both him and Cristiano onto the ground and piling on top of them, yelling in excitement. 

Under the weight of their sweaty, shouting teammates, Kaká hugs Cristiano tightly—not that he could get up even if he wanted to. The rest of the team begins to pull away, to prepare to spend the next six minutes defending their new lead, and Kaká feels Cristiano’s mouth against his jaw. It’s not quite a kiss, just a breath of hot, wet air against Kaká’s skin, and Cristiano lets his head fall back against Kaká’s palm and then to the grass as one of their teammates pulls Kaká up from behind. Kaká puts out a hand and brings Cristiano to his feet as well, and they head back to the other half of the pitch. 

They win, defending fiercely through the final six minutes of regulation time and then another four of stoppage time. When the referee blows his whistle to end the game, there’s another pile-up, this time with their captain at the bottom of the cheering mass. 

“Well done,” the captain says once he’s finally back on his feet. “See you all for pre-season in a few weeks,” he adds, to those on their regular team, Kaká included. The team begins to disperse from the field in all directions.

+

A few of the players ask Kaká and Cristiano if they want to go out to celebrate, but Kaká had promised his mother that they would be home for dinner and so they return to the bus stop to wait for the next bus travelling in to the city. The ride back is quiet; this time Cristiano and Kaká take different benches on the near-empty bus in order to stretch out, and when Kaká looks over at Cristiano he is resting his head against the back of the seat, his eyes closed. 

When they reach their stop, Kaká reaches over to shake Cristiano awake. “Hey,” Kaká says, “We’re here.” 

Cristiano nods, rubbing his eyes with his fists before standing up. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he says, which Kaká does not dignify with a response. Cristiano follows Kaká off the bus and they walk side-by-side back to Kaká’s house. 

“Did you win?” Digão asks as soon as they enter, at the same time as Kaká’s mother says, “Go wash up for supper.” 

“Not even hello?” Kaká asks, laughing, as Cristiano answers Kaká’s brother with an “of course.”

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Kaká’s mother says. “So please be quick.” 

Kaká goes upstairs and decides that he doesn’t have time for a shower, so he settles for chucking his sweaty clothes in a pile in the corner of his room and pulling on clean briefs, shorts, and a t-shirt. Cristiano must have come to a different conclusion because Kaká hears the shower running when he leaves his room, intending to go to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. He waits in the hallway, leaning against a bookshelf.

After a few minutes, the water shuts off. A few more minutes, and the door to the bathroom opens. Cristiano slips out, steam from the shower escaping around him. Kaká not-so-subtly notices that Cristiano is wearing nothing but a towel loosely wrapped around his waist, but the hallway is wide enough that Cristiano does not have to brush up against Kaká in order to get past him and yet he does anyway, so Kaká decides they are even. By the time he washes his hands and splashes some water on his face Cristiano has come back out of his room, fully dressed now, and they go downstairs to eat dinner with Kaká’s parents and brother. 

Kaká goes upstairs to shower when they finish eating, and while he’s drying off his hair with a towel afterward he looks out the window to the back yard and sees Digão practising free kicks in the same way Cristiano does each morning. Putting back on his clean clothes from earlier Kaká goes downstairs once more and outside to see that Cristiano is sitting on the ground just outside the back door, leaning back on his elbows with his legs splayed, giving Kaká’s younger brother advice on his accuracy. Kaká sits down a few feet away from him and they watch Digão aim free kicks until one bounces off the tree on the other side of the yard. 

When Digão tires of his practise and goes inside, Kaká and Cristiano stay. Cristiano drops his arms and lies flat on the ground, looking up at the now-dark sky above them. Kaká follows suit, and Cristiano stretches out a hand so that his fingertips just barely brush against Kaká’s hair. They stay like that for a few minutes, until Kaká tries and fails to stifle a yawn and Cristiano sits up, saying that they should get up early the next morning to go for a long run before the weather gets too hot. Kaká doesn’t disagree, so it’s back inside again and upstairs, the two of them disappearing into their respective bedrooms. 

+

Kaká wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night. He is conscious of some movement, some sound, the presence of another person in his room. After a moment of feeling disoriented from waking up at a strange time and in the darkness, he is certain it must be Cristiano. The corner of his bed is dipped from Cristiano sitting at it’s edge, and Kaká sits up and twists, leans against the wall and lets his eyes adjust until he can see Cristiano’s silhouette. 

“Hey,” Kaká says into the darkness. When Cristiano doesn’t respond, he says, “You okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Cristiano’s voice is deep, rough in a way that makes Kaká wonder for a second if Cristiano is sleepwalking and has somehow wandered from his own bedroom into Kaká’s. Then again, Cristiano can be really weird sometimes, so it’s hard to know for sure. His hand rests on Kaká’s calf and Kaká kicks his leg lightly to see if it will dislodge him. Instead, Cristiano gives Kaká’s leg a light squeeze. “See you in the morning, huh?” he says, and Kaká feels the weight shift on his mattress as Cristiano gets up and leaves the room. 

The door has only just clicked shut when Kaká gets up. He crosses the room, opens the door, and steps out into the hallway. Cristiano’s door is already closed so Kaká raps on the wood with his knuckles, keeps knocking until Cristiano opens the door and steps back so Kaká can come in. Kaká pushes the door shut behind him. 

“What the hell is going on with you?” Kaká asks, his tone equally weighted with confusion and frustration. Cristiano blinks a few times. Then he laughs. Then he puts his hands on either side of Kaká’s face and kisses him hard. Kaká’s back hits the closed door with a thud that he hopes his parents and brother are too sound asleep to hear. Cristiano slides his hand down Kaká’s neck and slips his fingertips under the collar of Kaká’s t-shirt. 

Kaká puts his hands on Cristiano’s hips and pulls him closer, and Cristiano laughs again, against Kaká’s mouth. He puts his hands back on Kaká’s face, then moves them around to the back of his head, tangling in Kaká’s hair and pressing their foreheads together like they’re in the midst of a game, planning their next attempt at eluding the defence and reaching the net. Even in the dim light of the bedroom Kaká can see that Cristiano is grinning in a foolish sort of way, and Kaká smiles in return, nuzzles his cheek against Cristiano’s and then makes his way back to Cristiano’s mouth with his lips.

Cristiano’s t-shirt bunches up under his armpits as Kaká lets his hands run up over the taut muscles of Cristiano’s back. Cristiano nudges Kaká’s legs apart with his own knee, steps in between them, and with fingers threaded in Kaká’s dark hair, draws them even closer together. 

“Everyone thought I was going to have a bad influence on you, Ricky,” Cristiano says. 

“Don’t you?” Kaká asks.

“Yes,” Cristiano agrees, with more than a hint of smugness in his tone, and sets about proving it.


End file.
